Thus In Winter
by Min Daae
Summary: Post Season 3. Another hunter catches up with Sam. Gratuitous hurtSam and angst. Oh, and Ruby.


_Author's Note: The plot bunny that moved into my head and refused to budge. I just went with it. Definitively hurt!Sam. Whatthefuckelse do I write in this fandom, oh my god.  
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It had been a long day.

Not that that was saying much. At this point, all his days were long. Interminable stretches of hour after hour, too much time and not enough to fill it with, except thinking. Too much of that. A month and two days later and he had nothing. Less than nothing, because Dean was in Hell and-

And if he thought about that too hard he would be verging on nonfunctional for the rest of the day. He shoved that thought back into a neat, compartmentalized box in the back of his brain and focused on unlocking the motel room door without losing hold of the bottle in his left hand.

He'd stopped the initial binge a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't worth feeling even more shitty, having to deal with the hangover on top of everything else. Now he just tried to dwell in a comfortable state of permanently buzzed, enough that his thoughts were dulled so he didn't cut himself on the edges but no more than that.

It also tended to dull his reflexes, but that was a side effect he could live with. He stayed mostly sober on the hunts, or at least tried. That was the best he could manage.

Dean would have been pissed, but that was almost part of the point. Dean wasn't _around _to be pissed, and Sam was pretty sure he knew whose fault that was.

Okay, maybe Lilith's too, but wherever that bitch was, she was keeping quiet.

He let himself into the room and closed the door, letting his head fall against it with a solid _thunk. _He had a quick pull from the bottle, mostly just because it was there, and closed his eyes.

A long day, and he was tired.

Sam glanced over at the stack of books on the table next to his laptop and grimaced. He needed to be researching. The hunt was over, and this was his time to be looking for ways to get Dean out of Hell, since he hadn't stopped him from getting into it. No one seemed to be talking, though. Just warnings, endless descriptions of the horrors that awaited the damned in the pit, and if life in general was tiring, reading those was worse.

Sometimes Sam suspected he was a little bit of a masochist.

One night off, he thought blurrily, staring at the stacks of research and reminders that awaited him. What could one night off hurt? He felt his expression spasm. Oh yeah. Dean. Because every night he took _off _from researching, hunting, working, that was one more night Dean was _there _without recourse or anything but pain, and they sure as hell weren't giving Dean nights off.

He set the bottle down on the bedside table and stumbled toward the desk, when he realized that the bathroom door was ajar.

He'd closed that, hadn't he? He tended to keep all the doors closed, if he could help it. Probably neurotic, but he didn't really care.

Sam took a deep breath through his nose, trying to focus. It was probably nothing. Just in case, though – "Ruby?" He doubted it, though. He hadn't seen her in weeks since he'd threatened to exorcise her if she came back again. And meant it, too.

He reached for his gun and took another step toward the door when he heard the sound of a gun cocking. Behind him.

"Oldest trick in the book," drawled a voice, and he was only halfway through turning around, gun in hand and cursing himself for not having reached for it first thing, when he caught a brief glimpse of the butt of a gun coming for his head before it hit and stars exploded behind his eyes.

_It'll be okay, _he thought dazedly. _Dean'll be in from the car any minute. _

He remembered that Dean wasn't coming just before the second blow fell.

~.~

Sometimes it seemed to Sam that he had spent half of his life waking up in restraints.

He found it even more depressing that he clearly recognized the feeling of having been unconscious. His head hurt, which was nothing new, and his stomach was trying to churn up his throat as he inadvertently shifted against what felt like rope bonds. Dazed and disoriented, he tried blinking, which cleared his vision a little, if to a disappointingly small degree, and the motel room still seemed to be trying to tilt back and forth, refusing to be level.

The knots were good, too. Struggling didn't seem to be helping. The rest of his body didn't feel much better than his head, either; apparently whoever had snuck up on him (god, that was embarrassing, Dean would never- _oh right_) hadn't felt compunction about roughing up an unconscious man.

He heard the door open – behind him, and that helped situate the room a little – and tried to twist his head to see who it was. His neck protested, and his head even more vehemently, so he gave up quickly.

"Sam Winchester," said the voice he remembered from just before he'd been all too easily clobbered into submission. "Well, I gotta say. Can't say it's a pleasure, but took quite a while to catch up to you."

Sam grimaced, and tried the restraints again. No dice. "Sorry to cause you so much trouble," he said. Whoever it was snorted.

"And here I thought your brother was the funny one."

Sam was almost, _almost _used to the pang whenever someone mentioned Dean. Almost. Maybe. Probably not. Probably, he thought, never would be. He gritted his teeth. "Shut up about my brother. Who the fuck are you?"

"Mouthy, mouthy." Whoever it was sauntered around to face Sam, and crouched down. Sam narrowed his eyes at the slightly craggy face.

"Christo," he said, and the man's face hardened, his fist swinging for the side of Sam's head again, and he couldn't move enough to dodge it. He'd had worse, but the way it made his brain feel like the tongue of a bell ringing back and forth in his skull –

That wasn't so pleasant.

"Don't get clever with me. I know what you are. Maybe you got rid of Gordon but he told some people, enough people."

Sam still felt dazed. "Gordon?" He said, and then remembered. With everything else, with Dean and Dean's deal and – everything, he'd practically forgotten. He groaned. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm serious," said the guy. "I'm dead serious. You, you're just dead. What, did you think your brother'd be around to protect you forever?"

Again, right on cue. _Pang. _"Told you not to talk about my brother," Sam said, gritting his teeth.

A sneer. "Why, cause he's dead? Cause you killed him, you fucking freak?"

That, that is just too much. Sam lurched forward, snarled. "I didn't-"

This time it was the gun again, swinging around to slam into his gut, and the ropes wouldn't let Sam bend double to absorb the impact. All the air whooshed out of him and Sam was left gasping, trying not to retch because if he did he was pretty sure he'd barf all over himself. "Shut up," the hunter said, "Shut up, demonic son of a bitch. I'm going to end you, and you're not getting out of it this time." A kick to the shins and a punch to his jaw, and Sam was pretty sure that's just for fun. "No one protecting you anymore, you can get what you deserve."

A deep, dark, kind of exhaustion momentarily settled on Sam's shoulders. There's nothing he could say, he knew that from dealing with Gordon. There didn't seem to be much he could do, either. The ropes were tight and the knots were good.

_But Dean was still in hell and he couldn't. Give up. Yet. _

He forced a laugh. "You that sure I'm alone?"

"Oh yeah? Where are they, then?" The hunter scoffed. "Don't try to fake me, buddy boy."

Sam swallowed his reluctance and said, "You _really _don't know what I can do." No one's coming, of course. He can't do anything. And Ruby – he's been pushing Ruby away for weeks. Not that he'd even want her help-

"You're bluffing," the hunter said, coolly, and Sam's heart sank. "I'm not stupid." He turned, fished around in the bag he'd brought, and withdrew a knife with a wicked looking edge, easing it from the sheath. "And I'm going to take my time making you pay."

_No, _Sam thought, just once. _Please. _

He clamped his lips shut, refusing to let the words cross his lips. The hunter didn't seem to want pleas, though, slapping duct tape over Sam's mouth. When he moved in and started cutting, Sam understood why.

All his intentions aside, he couldn't keep from screaming, but the tape kept the sound from getting far.

~.~

He didn't have the energy to scream any more as the knife dug in above his collarbone and slashed across, scraping the bone. "Whoops," said the hunter coldly, and he twisted the point in deeper. Sam could feel every millimeter, every tiny twitch, echoed and magnified in his flesh-

He retched, but managed to hold anything more down, gagging on nothing. The hunter snorted and drew the blade out. Sam's head lolled weakly forward, chin bumping on his chest as the hunter moved back, wiping his knife. He could feel himself slipping, sliding, and recognized the whirling, dizzy feeling of the early stages of bloodloss. The pain faded in and out with his attention as the world fuzzed for a moment, until water was roughly splashed into his face.

The way it had been the last few times he'd tried to pass out.

It was tempting to just give in. Maybe he'd even be able to find Dean downstairs and do something there. Maybe…

But Dean had never given up. (Hadn't he?) Sam had to keep trying, keep fighting –

Keep breathing, for now.

He tested the bonds again, now wet with water and blood. The buzz of whatever he'd been drinking was probably dulling the pain, but it wasn't helping his focus. The hunter picked up another knife, and Sam stilled, his eyes focusing on the blade briefly. _Dean's, _his brain went coherently, _Dean's, that's Dean's, get your hands off-_

"This is nice," the man said smugly. "Might keep it after I finish you." He hefted the blade once more, and ambled back in Sam's direction. Sam's hands twisted uselessly, his brain trying to dissociate because he knew as often as he'd seen it when death was coming, and it was now. The other pains faded as adrenaline flooded his system and Sam could feel his heart thudding, quickening in its cage. "No one coming to your rescue now, demon boy," the hunter said nastily, "Not this time."

"How sure are you about that?"

The hunter turned, and Sam forced his head up, trying to see through what he could tell were two developing black eyes. Ruby was smirking in the doorway, and Sam had never been so glad to see her – or so relieved he'd forgotten the salt line. "Come on," she said, "You didn't _really _think we'd leave him unguarded, did you?"

She blinked, and black slid through her eyes.

"You son of a bitch," the hunter said, sounding thrown, and Sam laughed, weakly.

Only very briefly, though, before the hunter whirled and Dean's knife was buried in his side. The surprise was a shield for the time it took for the blade to twist and rip free. Sam folded, a scream tearing out of his throat and swallowed in the tape as new pain washed over and through, along every nerve.

His head spun and the world tilted as blood started flooding out of the new wound. Someone was yelling, and then screaming, and there were the sounds of fighting somewhere both very close and far away. His heartbeat was loud in his ears and there was wet warmth pumping down his side, wetting his jeans. Sam couldn't keep his head up anymore.

Someone was talking to him, prodding at him, and Sam thought _too late _and _sorry, Dean. _

He was sliding down, and someone was probably dead or dying, but Sam was already gone.

~.~

Waking up was familiar. His whole body ached, with pain centered in his side. Sam groaned faintly, stomach beginning to twist and lurch. Someone was dabbing at his face with something cold and wet.

He lifted his hand with difficulty and tried to push it away. "Dean…get off. M'fine."

"I don't think so." A female voice, faintly caustic. Sam's eyes snapped open to blurry confusion, and then he remembered. "Ruby," he rasped, and tried to sit up. His side exploded with his vision and Ruby pushed him back down with ease.

"Easy, big boy. You're pretty torn up. Stay where you are. My stitches aren't that good."

Sam felt hot and miserable. He hurt all over and his head was light and whenever he woke like this, hurting and half empty of blood, _Dean _was supposed to be there. He closed his eyes, hoping that this would go away, and Dean would come back.

_Dean's in hell, you stupid fuck. Because you didn't stop it. _

"Sam. Stay awake." Ruby's voice was brisk, but she sounded almost – worried. "Do you need a hospital?" Sam swallowed hard, trying to focus through his haze and pressing nausea.

"No," he managed thickly. "No – hospital." Just a lot of painkillers. And his brother.

The loss hurt all over again, like the wound was just now fresh, and the tiny, thin scab he'd managed to build up had been swept away in the rest of the blood. His head slipped sideways and Sam stared blankly at the body on the floor, the hunter's neck snapped. Sam heard a low moan from his own throat and his body tried to heave, only to send ripples of pain all over that nearly dragged him back into oblivion.

"Sorry," Ruby said, sounding extraordinarily less than apologetic. "Are you sure? There's a lot of blood here that's not in you. And any gut wound…"

"No hospital," Sam said again, trying to make it firm, but he knew if Ruby decided to dump his sorry carcass in a hospital bed – he'd be too tired and sick to do anything about it. She was right, probably, but he just – couldn't.

Not right now. He tried to shift and was met with vehement protest from his whole body. He didn't want to know how much stitching Ruby had had to do. "Just…painkillers," he forced out, trying to keep his eyes open. "Just a few days…can travel again."

Ruby laughed, an oddly dark noise. "You're more of an idiot than I gave you credit for," she said, but got up and went over to the bathroom. She returned with a glass of water and some painkillers. Sam managed to swallow the water and the pills before he turned his head away and closed his eyes.

Maybe when he opened them it would be Dean, like it was supposed to be. Or maybe when he opened them he'd be dead.

Either one sounded like a better alternative.

The rest of his recovery passed in a vague blur of fever and delirium. He remembered Ruby waving a thermometer in front of his face and telling him that if his temperature went a half a degree higher his head was going to fry. He remembered the motel owner at the door complaining about the noise (apparently he'd been screaming), and wondering how Ruby had gotten rid of the blood and the body. He remembered feeling dizzy and sick, throwing up on Ruby as she tried to keep him alive.

When he was aware again, weak and exhausted but still alive, she was gone. A note by the bed said simply, _Found a lead. _

Sam walled up his heart again and moved on.

~.~

It was another year and then some before it was Dean pouring him into bed, bloody, wounded, exhausted. Sam was too woozy to resist as he was manhandled out of his shirt, his brother swearing under his breath until it suddenly just stopped.

Dean shook him a little, and Sam forced his eyes open. "Sam," Dean said tightly. "What is _this,_" And Sam knew what he was referring to, the map of scars slicing across his chest, some uglier than others. He closed his eyes again.

"Dammit," Dean said, "What the _hell _happened? When did-"

"Nothing," Sam said, quickly, because Dean couldn't have been there, and it wasn't his fault, and it was all behind them now (if not very far, and not really). "It's nothing. Nothing at all."


End file.
